


Red Scarves

by loudscreaming



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hawke Has Issues, Hawke does not emotion well, Purple Hawke, Scarves, Snarky Hawke, Terminal Illnesses, a very long flashback, ah well, hawke ur 22 u arent old, kinda cheesy tbr, like the whole story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 04:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12314220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loudscreaming/pseuds/loudscreaming
Summary: Hawke's ratty old headscarf has a story behind it that Varric wants to know.





	Red Scarves

“You know, Hawke, that headscarf you wear constantly,” Varric said, his voice angled in the way that Rose just knew that he was trying to unearth some story from her. She glanced over at the dwarf, cocking an eyebrow and humming lightly in response. “Is there a reason for that?”

“Do you ask everyone why they wear what they wear, or is it just me who gets the honours?” she joked, her tone light. She was deflecting, clearly, and Varric didn’t even have to work hard to see through it. Mentally, she kicked herself for the sloppy work.

“You know I love you, Hawke, but I do in fact pester everyone,” he joked right back, with the edge on his voice that told her she was on to her, if she hadn’t already picked up on it already. “Everyone has that one thing that’s of sentimental value, and therefore a great story.”

“Perhaps, for some reason, I just like wearing it?” she challenged, clearly grasping at straws.

  
“You’re not going to dodge this one, Jester,” he said, and she laughed at the nickname. “Especially when there’s a story to be told.”

 

* * *

 

Her father was laying on his deathbed, and all she could do was try and make his last days bearable.

The medicine that her mother had scraped enough money together to buy had failed, and neither Bethany nor Rose were alchemists with the training required to make a potion that would fix their father’s ailing help. The family were on shifts, one member constantly with him while the others kept watch for Templars. The vultures would take advantage of their weakened family and strike, should they find out about the three apostates living in the house.  
  
Rose scowled, her lips pursing in distaste. She leant over and touched her father’s forehead. He was boiling warm, and she almost pulled her hand away in shock. His temperature had gotten far, far worse. Quickly, she scurried for the log that they kept of Malcolm's steadily declining health, and scribbled down her observations. He coughed weakly behind her, rasping something that sounded like ‘water’.

She forced a smile. Her father wouldn’t want her glowering at him as his last moments rapidly approached. She called out for Carver to ‘ _fetch father some water - cold if you please_ ’, then turned to face the sick man. Her hair, thick and dark, was in her way. She couldn’t see him properly.  
  
Frustrated, she pushed back the stubborn curls for what seemed like the millionth time today, and studied the man. He’d once been her idol, strong and fit, with bright blue eyes and a quick tongue. He was always ready for everything, it seemed to her. Now, he looked like a ghost - unnaturally pale and gaunt, with his grey hair thinning more and more with every passing day. His eyes, whenever her felt strong enough to open them, were bloodshot and almost lifeless.

Her breath hitched in her throat, and she blinked away the hot tears from her lashes. She shook her head. She shouldn’t be mourning for the living, writing them off before they went.

A part of her, a foolish idealist who only wanted to live in a fairytale bubble, clung in vain to the hope that he would recover, that everything would be fine.

She huddled into the scarf, a gift her father had bought her when she was sixteen. She’d seen to woolen red thing and grinned widely, pointing it out. It had cute little tassels, but the true attraction was that it was a freezing day. She’d intended to go over to the stall and purchase it with some of the money she’d earned as a farmhand, but he’d sauntered over, bought it, and draped it around her neck before she could even protest.

The red scarf had been through a lot - it was singed on the ends from an unfortunate battle with a candle Bethany had tried to light, and stained from a time Carver, drunk off his arse and slurring, spilt drink all over her face. It had torn from being caught on twigs, but _Maker damn it_ , Rose was going to wear that ratty old scarf until they buried her in the grave.

Her mother had given up long ago, but her father found it endearing. He had his own clumsily-knitted scarf delivered to him a few months later by Rose, and he too was wearing it now.

She reached out, hand shaking violently, and took some of the fabric of the hand-made gift in her hand. Her hair fell in front of her eyes again, and she rubbed the fabric between her fingers. She couldn’t see the bony hand come up and grasp her own, but she felt the cold as ice touch of her father. Hastily, she pushed away her endlessly annoying hair and smiled at him.

His eyes were open, and staring at her with a strange emotion. Was it pride? Grief? Guilt? Love? She had no clue, but it chilled her to her core.

  
“Can’t see,” he rasped, barely making sense to her. She pieced it together, and laughed, a forced sound that came out more like a choked sob.

  
“My hair is entirely your fault, father. Genetics and all,” she tried to lift his spirits, but even she couldn’t muster up convincing sarcasm in this situation. He reached up and attempted to push away the curtain, but was too weak to. She paused, an idea striking her.

  
She undid the scarf from her neck and pulled her hair back, using the fabric like a headband. Only a few stray curls were escaping now, and she could see her father's face, and he could see hers.

He smiled, and then heaved a shuddering breath. His pulse flickered, from what she could tell from the fingers she’d pressed against his wrist while holding his hand. Her heart stopped, and she wailed for her mother. He barely responded, quickly slipping away from both consciousness and life.

Her family rushed in, mother leading with the twins close at her heels. They rushed over to the bedside, and her mother frantically searched for a pulse. Her father’s hand had gone limp in her own.

Suddenly, the old woman let out a gut-wrenching scream and fell over the corpse. Bethany fell into Carver’s waiting arms, and Rose squeezed the lifeless hand tighter, not wanting to let go.

After a few moments of silence in the room, she let his hand slip from hers and stood, crossing the room to her mother and embracing her. Her siblings joined in, drawing whatever strength they could from each other. She faced them now, her hair drawn back, and looked at their open faces.

When she caught a glimpse of herself in a plate, she wondered when she got so old.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s for sentimental reasons, yes,” she answered Varric, her voice hazed as if she’d just emerged from a dream.

“Well?””

She decided to hang the story over his head, to dangle it just outside of his reach. Varric loved hearing a good story, and she loved telling one, but she didn’t want this particular one ending up dramatized in the pages of one of Varric’s increasingly ridiculous novels.

“Sorry, Varric, you know I love you,” she sighed overdramatically. “But I’m afraid I can’t share my tragic backstory to even you.”

She stood and airily sauntered out of the room, leaving Varric yelling behind her.

“Hawke! Hawke, don’t you leave me hanging here!”

**Author's Note:**

> how obvious is it that i didn't plan this at all
> 
> also varric is surprisingly hard to write in this idk why so sorry if he's ooc.


End file.
